The Man and the Mountain Page #2

"The Man and the Mountain" by Bret Harte is a short story that explores themes of solitude, nature, and the human spirit. Set against the backdrop of the Sierra Nevada mountains, the narrative follows a solitary miner who embodies the rugged individualism of the American West. Through encounters with nature and other characters, Harte delves into the complexities of loneliness, aspiration, and the search for meaning in an untamed landscape. The story captures the stark beauty of the wilderness while highlighting the inner struggles of its protagonist, ultimately reflecting on the relationship between humanity and the natural world.

• Short story

								

and then walked alone slowly down the broad leafy street towards the
scene of contest. I have a very vivid recollection of my conflicting
emotions. I did not believe that I would be killed; I had no distinct
intention of killing any of my adversaries; but I had some considerable
concern for my loyal friend Rutli, whom I foresaw might be in some peril
from the revolver in my unpracticed hand. If I could only avoid shooting
HIM, I would be satisfied. I remember that the bells were ringing for
church,--a church of which my enemy, the chief squatter, was a deacon
in good standing,--and I felt guiltily conscious of my revolver in my
hip-pocket, as two or three church-goers passed me with their hymn-books
in their hands. I walked leisurely, so as not to attract attention,
and to appear at the exact time, a not very easy task in my youthful
excitement. At last I reached the front gate with a beating heart. There
was no one on the high veranda, which occupied three sides of the low
one-storied house, nor in the garden before it. But the front door was
open; I softly passed through the gate, darted up the veranda and into
the house. A single glance around the hall and bare, deserted rooms,
still smelling of paint, showed me it was empty, and with my pistol in
one hand and the other on the lock of the door, I stood inside, ready to
bolt it against any one but Rutli. But where was HE?

The sound of laughter and a noise like skylarking came from the rear of
the house and the back yard. Then I suddenly heard Rutli's heavy tread
on the veranda, but it was slow, deliberate, and so exaggerated in
its weight that the whole house seemed to shake with it. Then from the
window I beheld an extraordinary sight! It was Rutli, swaying from
side to side, but steadily carrying with outstretched arms two of the
squatter party, his hands tightly grasping their collars. Yet I
believe his touch was as gentle as with the violets. His face was
preternaturally grave; theirs, to my intense astonishment, while they
hung passive from his arms, wore that fatuous, imbecile smile seen on
the faces of those who lend themselves to tricks of acrobats and strong
men in the arena. He slowly traversed the whole length of one side of
the house, walked down the steps to the gate, and then gravely deposited
them OUTSIDE. I heard him say, "Dot vins der pet, ain't it?" and
immediately after the sharp click of the gate-latch.

Without understanding a thing that had happened, I rightly conceived
this was the cue for my appearance with my revolver at the front door.
As I opened it I still heard the sound of laughter, which, however,
instantly stopped at a sentence from Rutli, which I could not hear.
There was an oath, the momentary apparition of two furious and indignant
faces over the fence; but these, however, seemed to be instantly
extinguished and put down by the enormous palms of Rutli clapped upon
their heads. There was a pause, and then Rutli turned around and quietly
joined me in the doorway. But the gate was not again opened until the
arrival of my partisans, when the house was clearly in my possession.

Safe inside with the door bolted, I turned eagerly to Rutli for an
explanation. It then appeared that during his occasional visits to the
garden he had often been an object of amusement and criticism to the men
on account of his size, which seemed to them ridiculously inconsistent
with his great good humor, gentleness, and delicacy of touch. They had
doubted his strength and challenged his powers. He had responded once
or twice before, lifting weights or even carrying one of his critics
at arm's length for a few steps. But he had reserved his final feat
for this day and this purpose. It was for a bet, which they had eagerly
accepted, secure in their belief in his simplicity, the sincerity of his
motives in coming there, and glad of the opportunity of a little Sunday
diversion. In their security they had not locked the door when they
came out, and had not noticed that HE had opened it. This was his simple
story. His only comment, "I haf von der pet, but I dinks I shall nod
gollect der money." The two men did not return that afternoon, nor did
their comrades. Whether they wisely conceived that a man who was so
powerful in play might be terrible in earnest; whether they knew that
his act, in which they had been willing performers, had been witnessed
by passing citizens, who supposed it was skylarking; or whether their
employer got tired of his expensive occupation, I never knew. The public
believed the latter; Rutli, myself, and the two men he had evicted alone
kept our secret.

From that time Rutli and I became firm friends, and, long after I had
no further need of his services in the recaptured house, I often found
myself in the little tea-arbor of his prosperous nursery. He was frugal,
sober, and industrious; small wonder that in that growing town he waxed
rich, and presently opened a restaurant in the main street, connected
with his market-garden, which became famous. His relations to me
never changed with his changed fortunes; he was always the simple
market-gardener and florist who had aided my first housekeeping, and
stood by me in an hour of need. Of all things regarding himself he was
singularly reticent; I do not think he had any confidants or intimates,
even among his own countrymen, whom I believed to be German. But one day
he quite accidentally admitted he was a Swiss. As a youthful admirer
of the race I was delighted, and told him so, with the enthusiastic
addition that I could now quite understand his independence, with his
devoted adherence to another's cause. He smiled sadly, and astonished me
by saying that he had not heard from Switzerland since he left six years
ago. He did not want to hear anything; he even avoided his countrymen
lest he should. I was confounded.

"But," I said, "surely you have a longing to return to your country; all
Swiss have! You will go back some day just to breathe the air of your
native mountains."

"I shall go back some days," said Rutli, "after I have made mooch, mooch
money, but not for dot air."

"What for, then?"

"For revenge--to get efen."

Surprised, and for a moment dismayed as I was, I could not help
laughing. "Rutli and revenge!" Impossible! And to make it the more
absurd, he was still smoking gently and regarding me with soft,
complacent eyes. So unchanged was his face and manner that he might have
told me he was going back to be married.

"You do not oonderstand," he said forgivingly. "Some days I shall dell
to you id. Id is a story. You shall make it yourselluff for dose babers
dot you write. It is not bretty, berhaps, ain't it, but it is droo. And
de endt is not yet."

Only that Rutli never joked, except in a ponderous fashion with many
involved sentences, I should have thought he was taking a good-humored
rise out of me. But it was not funny. I am afraid I dismissed it from my

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